Playing Second Fiddle
by Fair-Ithil
Summary: All she ever asked of him was that he’d do right by his father. But he couldn’t...It's not easy to live in your father's shadow. Neville knows firsthand.


**Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.**

**A/N: **This was the creation of an afternoon of Lifetime (television for women) and a few shots of cold medication. Furthermore I want to a make it clear that I love Neville, like whoa. This isn't suppose to bash Neville. I'm sure Mrs. Longbottom loves her grandson.

Any way… **Neville's Gran PoV, HBP, Neville/Luna if you squint **Read, enjoy, let me know what you think.

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The boy had hurt himself again.

She could see him limping over the green lawn towards her, the flaxen haired girl from the train station at his side.

The boy was hurt again and there was talk among the school board suggesting it might not open again. It was the chamber ordeal all over again and she isn't sure she can handle that. The boy would have to find a job, a respectable one, but with his low scores and natural clumsiness she can't even begin to fathom what ministry department would take him even with recommendations. Especially not after his little stunt last year.

Oh, Frank had never been this troublesome. Frank had done well in all his classes, _especially_ the ones that counted; he had been in the running for Head Boy, played chaser for Gryffindor. He'd been a model student and after school he'd found himself a good job, a good wife, he'd made a good life for himself.

Not that she had approved then, it was so dangerous after all, what with the war.

Then Alice had gotten pregnant and they became involved in the Order. That, she thinks often, is where everything went wrong.

Now both Frank and Alice were permanent residents at St. Mungos and the boy… was nothing like his father.

The boy had a way of finding trouble, trouble and mishaps. In his first year he'd been injured during his first flying lesson and she had received numerous letters from his charm teacher asking whether he had had many bouts of raw magic as a child and if so, how many of them had ended in flames. Minerva wrote her _twice_ that year when the boy had been found wandering about after hours, first to inform her that he had lost his house points, the second to say that he had been found in a full body bind within his own common room. The second time it was almost as though Minerva had expected her to be _proud _of the boy for standing up to Harry Potter, for earning ten points.

His second year, during the Chamber of Secret fiasco when there was talk of shutting the school down, he had written home and told her he was afraid—without saying it of course, he knew she had no taste for cowardice and won't hold with such nonsense. She had raised him to never be afraid, though it seemed often as though the lesson simply didn't take.

He left the passwords out for Sirius Black and he had a panic attack in Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Then, just last year he had gone along with one of Potter's crazy adventure's at the ministry and battled Death Eater's and gotten himself hurt. She shook her head solemnly at the memory. He had broken Frank's wand.

On top of that he had received poor O.W.L.s—with one exception and now he was hurt again.

The boy simply wasn't meant to be a hero; she understood that, had understood that since the night the Dark Lord chose the Potter house and spared Frank's. Not that they had been spared for too long.

She sighed, leaning on her walking stick which sunk down into the damp grass. Frank would never have done this. He would have done right by the Longbottom name. At the very least he won't have allowed himself to be injured. Not like this.

Minerva had written her again at the start of the year, a discourteous letter which implied she ought to change her manner of treating her grandson. As if the woman had any knowledge of the situation, any say. She had raised him no different than she had raised Frank. He lacked nothing, not food or clothes or a bed. All she ever asked of him was that he'd do right by his father. But he couldn't and now the school was closing and what was she to do with him?

The boy was only feet away now, and the girl, with her hair swept up now rather than everywhere as it was before, had her hand on his arm, helping him along.

"Hello Gran." He said, and she looks him up and down.

He's changed a bit since the first time she saw him off to the train station. He's still too round—Frank was always a lean boy, she remembers—and his hair was disheveled, curling over his eyes, sky blue just like his mother. There was so little of Frank in this boy, so very little that had she not known Alice's character she would have questioned the father. Besides there were always the ears, the same pale crescent shell protruding from his mop of dark hair.

"Neville." She replies with a curt nod, waiting for him to introduce the girl properly. Frank wouldn't have missed a beat.

"Oh," the boy stutters looking down at the girl, who smiled lightly up at him. "Gran this is Luna Lovegood. You remember her from the train?"

"Pleasure to meet you." She said civilly, waiting for the farewell that was certain to take place now before her.

"Neville was very brave Mrs. Longbottom." The girl says in way of a greeting and the boy goes red to the roots of his hair and mumbles something that might be taken as modesty.

Her eyes never leave his face as he turns to the girl and said, "Be careful." And then almost in a whisper, "I'll write you." Only now there isn't the slightest tinge of red on his face, no stutter in his words, in fact he seems to stand a bit straight and she can't help but notice that he's tall too.

"Take care of yourself Neville." The girl says lightly, and she can't help but be startled somewhat by what she sees in the young woman's eyes.

Because she's staring at him with eyes at don't say pity, don't say sympathy. Instead she's looking at her grandson with eyes that shine with respect, admiration, pride.

The girl was looking at Neville the way she once looked at Frank.

**End**

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